Visit at the Wrong Hour
Down went his hand, drifting from where it had stayed. A whisper of motion crept along the hall, barely there. Then came his words - hushed now, not edged like before, but open, full of something closer to wonder than doubt.
"Tell me… what are you doing here?"
A hush filled the shadowed room, caught in the dance of wavering firelight and the quiet firmness of his posture. Not a muscle moved. His gaze stayed flat, expressionless like carved rock, yet beneath that surface, ideas raced - sharp, swift, hidden from every onlooker. Stillness held his body. Inside, everything surged.
A shape stood motionless before him. Breathing out long and soft, it tilted its head slightly. A grin appeared - not sharp, but light, hinting at quiet laughter, like the whole moment was somehow funny.
"Why shouldn't I be here?" the man murmured, tilting his head. "Is it so strange for me to visit my own son?"
His eyes narrowed. Ben, that move of yours lacks finesse
